We first noticed them on a chilly, gray day as we walked in a park near West Point Lake. They looked to be a couple, young and reasonably well-groomed, but somehow as sad and forlorn-looking as the barren winter ground.

They moved slowly, without energy or hope in their steps. A bit on the skinny side, they looked, somehow, disappointed and yet uncomplaining, as if resigned to their fate.

“What are they doing here?” I whispered, and the man of the house spoke what should have been obvious.

“They are homeless,” he said. “They are hoping for handouts from fishermen.”

Oh, dear.

The huge lakeside parking lot was virtually empty. The fishermen were at home, by the fire.

“But, but,” I stammered, shivering in the bitter wind. “How will they manage with nothing to eat and no place to get warm?”

How, indeed? How does any abandoned animal manage?

They do what they can. They suffer, silently and mostly unnoticed.

We tried to approach the two young-adult black cats. Despite miserable circumstances, their solemn faces retained a hint of the pride and elegance that marks the species.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I called gently, invoking words I’ve used countless times to summon Sugar and Beau, Mesha, Prissy, Abigail and Samantha, treasured felines who have graced my life.

For a moment, the two outcasts seemed interested. They approached us warily - one step, then a pause; another step, then a pause.

But every time I moved, even slightly, they skittered off, fear overriding their hunger and defeating their chance for rescue.

“You can tell they’ve been around people,” the man of the house said quietly.

I shuddered to think what had made them so afraid. Maybe they had been mistreated. More likely, they’d just been unwanted.

I tried to think of some defensible circumstance that had brought these lovely creatures to such calamity. Maybe they had been left behind accidentally. Maybe they ran away from comfortable surroundings, seeking adventure.

It would be comforting, but naive, to think so. Most likely someone who no longer wanted them - or couldn’t afford to keep them - put them out in the park, perhaps as kittens. Possibly the nameless someone hoped a compassionate fisherman would take them home.

Maybe, but it didn’t happen. And, over time, the two domestic cats became wild, remembering, but not really trusting that humans could be their friends.

My afternoon walks, even cold ones, usually leave me feeling uplifted. That afternoon, we went home troubled. Without a word, the man of the house grabbed a can of tuna and went back to the park. I spent most of the night picturing the two helpless creatures huddled together in the cold.

The next day I put cat food on my grocery list.

In the weeks since we first spotted the park cats, we’ve returned many times. They recognize us and, once they see a can of cat food, they come toward us. They’ve let us softly stroke their ears as they nibble.

But they still dart away at almost any move. And I have no doubt they would scratch and claw, if we tried to pick them up.

We’ve learned a lot from those cats. No matter how hungry, they share the food without shoving, neither begrudging the other.

Their resourcefulness is impressive. They perch on picnic tables to get off the cold, wet ground. They crouch under parked vehicles - soaking up the lingering warmth of the engines, using the huge tires as shields against the wind.

Once, we watched as the female glided purposefully toward a group of fishermen pulling a boat out of the water. She stopped at a safe distance - but where they couldn’t avoid seeing her - and stood, head cocked, inviting them to toss a leftover minnow or bit of fish guts her way.

Another time, we saw her stake out a lakeside trash can, poised to pounce on any half-eaten sandwich or leftover Vienna sausages.

Given the abundance of human misery and pressing problems in the world, I realize it’s silly to fixate on the perils of a pair of abandoned cats. I get it. I really do.

But I can’t solve the world’s problems, can’t even make a dent. And I believe, and I hope you do, that doing nothing is not an option.

Those cats, God’s creatures, are doing what they can to overcome a cruel fate, most likely the fault of a thoughtless human. An occasional can of cat food isn’t much, but it’s something.

Somehow, each time we feed those cats, I feel we’re standing up for the whole human race.